


The Hands of a Surgeon

by TopHatCat



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Crozier Jopson and Hickey are briefly mentioned, Fluff and Angst, I wrote harry and silna platonically, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, but read it how you will, god is mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29095782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TopHatCat/pseuds/TopHatCat
Summary: Harry Goodsir can't seem to stop washing his hands, no matter how clean they are.
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir & Lady Silence | Silna
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	The Hands of a Surgeon

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, I watched the entirety of The Terror in three days, so I had to write a fic to heal my broken soul! This takes place in a sort-of fix-it universe I've crafted where Goodsir and Jopson survive along with Crozier.  
> My experience with this sort of ocd coping mechanism is based off a close friend.

His hands burned.

It did not matter that he washed them in the icy cold of melted snow, never frigid enough compel him to end the activity sooner rather than later; the flesh of his hands was hot to the touch, and they warmed the water that he ran over them, again and again in the bowl. The skin was scaly and chapped, splitting with each bend of his fingers. Thin crimson lines appeared where the skin was pulled taught over knuckles and bone, splintering like cracked ice, and red droplets slowly oozed from the larger cuts.

He washed the blood away as soon as it appeared.

His hands were not unclean, he knew, for he had washed them often enough in the time since they’d reached the Netsilik camp here in this barren place. He’d cleaned their wounds and clothes and skin alongside Silna, until they were able to do it themselves; first Jopson, his strength returned by lichens Silna gathered, then Captain Crozier, swiftly healed by the combined efforts of the doctor and the shaman, and helped along spiritually with Jopson’s unwavering faith in the man. Their small group was a mere shadow of the crew, the family they’d lost along the way, but God had stayed their demise, though for what further purpose Goodsir could not tell.

He thought that perhaps God had not been with them for many years now.

There had certainly been instances enough that he wondered that God should care for them anymore. Had the Father in Heaven not abandoned them at the ships then surely He had turned away in disappointment at the brutality of His son’s behavior in the desolate expanse of King William Land. Goodsir did not find himself exempt of this brutality. In fact, he held himself accountable for actions which surely would not allow him through the pearly gates when he inevitably approached them someday. No matter how long or how many times he submerged his hands in water, he could not rid the feeling of Billy Gibson’s blood from his skin.

He scrubbed harder.

A small gasp escaped his lips as the edge of his thumb caught a particularly large cut, dragging at the opening so the red of the tissue inside stood out against the fading white mark where his finger had pressed down. Yesterday he had removed his gloves only to find pus and blood so dried to the inside that it peeled away the flesh, leaving strips of raw skin stuck to the inner linings. This spot had cracked deep, and had only just begun to heal the night before, but now the new scab become softened and pliable under the treatment of water until it was scraped away completely by his thumb. He had not given the wounds time to heal for several days now, ever since he had begun to feel the blood on his hands again, no matter how harshly he scoured the tender flesh. It was his own blood welling up now, not Billy’s.

It was not enough to be Billy’s.

Billy’s blood had been everywhere, on his fingers, under his nails, stained into the lines of his palms and knuckles, splattered up in droplets all the way to his elbows. Billy’s blood had been a sea of red, welling up around severed muscles and brittle bones. Abdomen, biceps of the arms and legs, the soleus at the back of the calves…he cut them out with practiced knowledge and a feverish speed he had never subjected any cadaver to before. His fingers gripping the knife had not shook as much as his heart trembled, not until the cloth he had placed over the man’s face slipped. As he carved out flesh from one shoulder and the cloth fell to the floor, revealing the face, a companion’s face, the doctor could not pretend it was a medical volunteer he butchered, nor some sailor who’s death may give warning to future ailments. He’d ruined the corpse of a man who he’d seen murdered not at hour before, intended for the purpose of survival, though he had not wanted to survive in such a way, God forgive him. Despite his loathing for the meat he’d prepared, there was no pretending of the facts nor hiding from the truth of what he did.

In this tent far from Hickey’s wretched, cursed camp, Goodsir squeezed his eyes shut and plunged his hands further into the water.

Strong, gentle fingers grasped his wrists suddenly, and there was a warm body at his back, arms wrapped around to lift his hands from the washbowl. He had not heard her rise from the bed, nor cross the rocky ground to him, and he started a bit, eyes flying open. 

“Silna,” he said, guilt eating- no, not that word- clawing at his heart. It was late, and he had done his best to be quiet, but he must have made some noise if she was standing by him now. He hadn’t wanted her to see him like this.

But Silna shook her head, resting her chin on his shoulder so her warm breath tickled his right sideburn, and he relaxed, settling back a bit into the fur parka that covered her sturdy chest. She had yet to release her hold on his wrists, and he looked down at the damaged skin of his hands, that were only turning redder in the cold, dry air as droplets fell from his fingertips. The water in the bowl had a pinkish tint to it, and the liquid shivered as the drops disturbed the surface of it. 

She turned him around in her arms, recapturing his hands when they were face to face. Observing them for a moment, she lifted her eyes to his, gaze dark with concern under her furrowed brow. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, but her eyes did not leave his face and he crumbled under her scrutiny of him.

“I keep thinking about it, you see,” he said, words stuttering as if his tongue were tripping over them. “What I did to that poor man was…inhuman.” His voice dropped in volume, the confession barely a whisper. “I am so very, very ashamed and I can’t seem to stop thinking about the- the- _blood_.”

“Shhh,” she whispered through her teeth, and he bit down on his lip as one of her fingers ghosted over the blistering skin of his knuckles. Under the gentle pressure of her guidance, he was sat down cross-legged on the furs that made up their bed and she knelt in front of him, settling his hands in his lap. He kept them there, hot and aching, as she reached into a travelling pack that sat on the floor and pulled out a packet of tightly wrapped animal hide. Placing it between them and undoing the strings, the wrappings folded out to reveal strips of seal fat secured inside.

Taking his right hand into her grasp, Silna took an oily ribbon of fat and laid it on the chapped skin. The pad of her thumb slowly rubbed the greasy substance in circles, working the fat into the numerous small lacerations that made up the backs of his hands, and the oil permeating his flesh didn’t hurt so much as the drag of her skin on his.

Her touch was as gentle as she could make it, and the more fat she used the less painful the ministrations became. Her fingers worked over the back of his hands, over each pronounced knuckles and the tendons leading down to the wrist, the heel of her thumb kneaded his palm and then his wrist, turning the dry skin almost smooth again. The process was repeated on his other hand with the same care, attention given to each finger she massaged, from the very tips down to the web of skin at the base of his narrow appendage. Her thumb caught once on a gash in the soft skin between his forefinger and thumb, and he flinched away with a gasp. Pausing, she lifted her gaze to his face and he set his stinging hand back into her palm, a flush rising to his cheeks.

“Sorry, I-.”

One of her fingers pressed against his mouth, silencing his needless apology before she returned to her task. He rubbed the grease her finger left behind between his dry lips, tongue just barely catching the taste of fat as he watched her work the oil into the largest gashes with utmost care.

Eventually she drew back, wiping her hands on the outer edge of the skin the fat had been wrapped it before leaning over and picking up what he recognized as his necktie. Her gaze was a question of consent, and he nodded, allowing her to bind his hands in the strip of cloth. The wrappings were secure but not tight enough to suffocate, and she didn’t tie the ends, only returned his bound hands to his lap.

“Thank you,” he said as she repackaged what remained of the fat and set it aside. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve never been so squeamish before.”

Silna’s hand came up to rest against his cheek and her palm was comfortingly warm on his chilled skin. Instinctually, without hesitation, he leaned into her touch, desperate for every indication of her presence. They sat like that for a long moment, without words, and in the silence he could feel his worries bleed out of him where her skin met his.

When they did move, it was so she could turn out the lamp, plunging the room into near-darkness that gathered them up in arms of sleep and finally brought true weariness weighing down on Goodsir’s eyelids, the type that makes one wish for sleep. They two curled up under a heavy layer of skins and fur, her cheek to his forehead, their hot breath mingling in the closed space and the doctor’s worn-out hands tucked between their bodies. As they drifted into sleep, Silna’s fingers rested feather-light where the tips of his were just visible under the cloth, and slowly, he began to heal.


End file.
